The Magnificent
by Queen Edmund Pevensie
Summary: For two decades, Peter, the High King of Narnia and Aslan's Elect, ruled over Narnia with a firm but gentle hand. He and his three younger siblings led the country into a time of health and prosperity, and he was, gratefully, after the century long winter that Peter and his brother and sisters had ended, remembered as the King who reigned over an eternal summer.
1. Prologue

**A/N: It's been a while and this is a day late. I've been stretched a little thin lately and I'm graduating tomorrow so more chapters (probably two or three) will be up eventually. Please just bear with me for a little while, and I'll try to make it worth the wait. And so, here it is, a second companion piece to The Just, which someone somewhere asked for probably.  
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For two decades, Peter, the High King of Narnia and Aslan's Elect, ruled over Narnia with a firm but gentle hand. He and his three younger siblings led the country into a time of health and prosperity, and he was, gratefully, after the century long winter that Peter and his brother and sisters had ended, remembered as the King who reigned over an eternal summer.

They didn't, of course.

The four kings and queens of Narnia left, or disappeared, on an autumn day, whisked away with the red and gold leaves. Taken back, the Narnians presumed when they had officially given up looking, to the land of eternal summer from whence they had come.

This is how, historians say, the rumor of the Golden Age had started. The children granted Narnia the gift of eternal summer, a gift that their own country had been granted by Aslan. And while most Narnians knew, logically, that this was just a fairytale, there were some, old and young alike, most very wild, who believed every word of it. And even those who knew such stories couldn't be true, they liked the idea of it. The era of eternal summer.

The Golden Age was, for its part, a time of prosperity and safety for the Narnians. There was never famine or drought. There was no war, at least not any that the Narnians were aware of. Small conflicts, maybe, with the supporters of the White Witch at the beginning, and the giants taking up too much space to the North. And there was that nasty business with Prince Rabadash, but they were safe, and they were healthy. They were happy to live in a land where they knew their kings and queens would fight to protect each and every one of their citizens.

Once they left, things changed. Even before Caspian I came out of Telmar and destroyed what little civilization there was left in Narnia, before he stamped out the dwarves, and cut down the trees, and drove all the Talking Animals into hiding; before the humans who lived in fear from the Witch had to live in fear of the Telmarines; before the Conqueror came into Narnia with his catapults and his war machines and took what was left for himself; before all that, the Narnians had already begun to talk about those kings and queens of old like they were fairy tales, instead of real, living breathing people.

And even those Narnians who refused to believe that a fourteen year old boy and his three younger siblings brought Narnia peace called him and his era by their rightful names. Even some of the Telmarines let the word slip reverently through their teeth. The Golden Age, the time during which High King Peter had ruled. He was Magnificent.

King Peter the Magnificent.

He wasn't always magnificent, of course. At first, he was just tall and blond and nervous. And although the name followed him throughout history, the first time Peter heard it, he was fifteen. For the second time. And the stories of these Narnians, who were driven deep into the woods by the Telmarines who took their home out from under them, were stories of their four kings and queens during their reign of eternal summer. One story they told, whispered in the dead of winter, or staring up at the top of Miraz's castle, was a story about their High King, a boy of fourteen. They told it like the Golden Age, as it must have been, was forever cloaked in the heat of summer, but when Peter himself heard the story for the first time he remembered it as it was: up to their ankles in snow.


	2. Chapter 1

The last time Peter had been this cold, the winter had been enchanted to last forever, and not even the giants dared to cross their borders. Something about snow when there ought to be grass, and barren trees when they ought to have been baring fruit and flowers put them off. It would have discouraged Peter too, if he had known any better.

Now that winter only occurred when winter _ought_ to occur, and _had_ for several years in a row, the giants thought Narnia a better place than the mountains they came from to raise their families. Maybe it was warmer in the winter and there was more food, or maybe they didn't even know that they had, as a whole, been slowly migrating south the entire winter, but either way, the giants had to go. Marshwiggles make good food for giant kind, and the one or two who had thought they would even make it to Cair Paravel to inform their Kings and Queens of the new predators venturing out of the mountains to snack on their families, well they were _sure_ that if they, Lion willing, made it home in one piece there would be no home to return to, all the other marshwiggles eaten up before anything could be done.

Peter attempted to assure them that they would return home safely, and that he, Peter, the High King of Narnia himself, would go to help protect the marshes and to push the giants back into giant country. The marshwiggles, sodden creatures that they were, just sighed and thanked Peter for his concern, but told him that there was no use coming up just get eaten himself.

Edmund wondered, after the marshwiggles left, whether they _shouldn't_ just let the giants have them, and deal with the consequences later, yet, when the time came to traipse through the snowy mountains with fifty good men to shove the giants out of Narnia and to discourage any further attempts to eat Narnians for dinner, Edmund was right by Peter's side, grumbling about the wind and the snow the whole way.

"The next time, Peter," Edmund complains, slipping a little on a patch of ice. "The next time you decide to hike through the mountains in the dead of winter, you can bloody well leave me at home." He stumbles again, landing on his knees in the snow. "Lion's mane," he swears. Peter sighs, stops, and gives Edmund a hand up.

"You volunteered, Ed," Peter reminds him.

Edmund gives a noncommittal grunt. "Then next time," Edmund continues. "Say, 'Edmund, you hate snow, the mountains, and marshwiggles. You should stay at home with the girls."

"You don't hate marshwiggles," Peter says with a sigh brushing the snow off his gloves. His fingers ache from the cold and he stuffs his hands in his armpits.

"Yeah, well, they exhaust me," Edmund groans. He's completely soaked from his tumble in the snow, his cheeks are bright red, and Peter thinks, though he can't be sure, that his lips are starting to turn blue. "So just next time…" Edmund's voice trails off in the wind and Peter sighs.

"I'll try to remember that," he says. He's exhausted, but he looks back again at Edmund, a couple of steps behind him, and he can see that, even though he's miserable –soaked to the bone, cold, tired of walking all day –there's a hint of a smile on his blue lips, and Peter can't help but smiling too.

Although, the color that Edmund is turning is slightly alarming and the sun is a nasty reddish color very low on the horizon. It looks, from here, like the peaks of the trees of the Western Woods are on fire. "We'll stop soon, Ed," Peter promises.

Almost as soon as Peter says it, the whole army hears it, and there's a sigh of relief. Oreius trots up to Peter, with a great amount of difficulty; his hooves and his size weren't meant for snowy mountains.

"Your Majesty," he says. "We heard you plan to stop for the night."

"As soon as we can find a place to stay dry, Oreius, I promise," Peter says, laughing at Oreius's roughness marred by the hope of finding a place to sleep.

"And a place to warm ourselves, I hope," he adds. Peter nods, and Oreius bows, but he doesn't leave them, mostly because, as they climb the mountain, there's no place for him to go.

The sun keeps sinking and they keep climbing. The temperature drops and the snow starts falling harder, and Edmund's grumbling becomes more earnest.

Peter's almost given up hope to find someplace dry to sleep and Edmund's whisper, "Peter, I'm too cold," is very, very quiet, and without any of the chipper chiding from earlier.

"Okay," he says, and slows his pace to walk shoulder to shoulder with his brother. He brushes up against him. "Soon, Ed, I promise. We'll build a fire, and get some dinner and go to sleep, sound good?" Edmund nods. Edmund, Peter reminds himself, is just fourteen, the same age Peter was when they came to Narnia, and Edmund, whose always hated the cold and has hated it even more since they came to Narnia, has walked further in the two days they've been out than Peter could have walked in a whole week at that age. Edmund is usually so grown up –at _least_ as grown up as Peter –that sometimes, it's easy to forget that he isn't.

Peter looks behind him and sees the Narnians trudging dutifully along, but they too are soaking wet and shivering and Peter can't think of anything to do but pray that they find someplace to camp soon, so that instead of fifty good men, he doesn't end up with fifty tired deserters and one weary little brother who didn't seem overly interested in negotiating with giants in the first place.

"Aslan, please," he begs under his brother as he struggles forward with the rest of his soldiers.

It seems that no sooner does he say it, does he spot a cliff that overhangs the mountain a little ways in front of him. It's high enough to accommodate the tallest of them, and deep enough that it's practically a cave. At least deep enough to shelter the Narnians from the wind and the snow for a few hours. A ripple of relief flows through the group, and Peter and Edmund collapse once they're out of the snow.

The next morning is bright, clear, and mercifully warm. Oreius stands at the edge of their shelter, squinting into the rising sun. He leaves hoof prints in the fine layer of snow when he lifts up his feet. He does not so much as look over when he hears Peter rise and come to stand next to him.

"Did you sleep easy, General?" Peter asks, turning his back to the sun, watching over his army. Oreius grunts in response, but his gruffness makes Peter smile. "I believe that Aslan will make the rest of the journey much easier for us," he continues.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Oreius agrees. "It's not much further to go now, until we come to giant country." Oreius's voice is heavy and calm, and he turns at last to look Peter in the face. "Are you ready to face them, my King?" His eyes glint in the sunlight, and Peter sees the same ferocity in his face as when he first met him –ready, and a little bit hungry, to lay down his life for Narnia, for her King, and for Aslan.

"I've come to negotiate with giants, Oreius," Peter reminds him. "You and Ed have come to fight them."

Oreius smiles wider and he laughs. "Giants, even the rational ones, do not negotiate, my Lord. We just want to be prepared, nothing more."

Peter laughs a little, too, and then, he and Oreius go about readying the rest of the Narnians for the march ahead of them.

It's comfortably warm by the time they're on the move again, and Peter and Edmund take the lead. It's a bit longer than Peter had anticipated, but they are close enough by nightfall that marshwiggles receive them, very kindly in their way, and Peter speaks to the leader of all of them, though she wouldn't call herself much of a leader, and she'll probably be eaten by the giants before she can do much in the way of leading.

And if she's not eaten, she's sure that something else horrific shall happen, but, she tells Peter with a grimace, it won't stop her from trying.

"On the topic of leaders, do the giants seem to have one?" Peter asks her.

She smiles, like she's been told a really bad joke. Peter can't be sure whether or not he's ever seen one of her kind smile before, thin lips stretched peculiarly over her froglike face. "The giants," she whispers, like she's _telling_ Peter and Edmund the joke, but it's the sort of joke that is in bad taste, and can only be told in certain company. She even laughs, which shocks Edmund. "They certainly look like men, but they aren't at all. At least, not these giants. Further north, perhaps, you could offer them gold or protection, but not threaten –certainly not threaten –those giants perhaps, but these giants–" she shudders with the thought, but then she laughs again. "They want land and food."

"We can offer both elsewhere," Peter points out, but she shakes her head of straw hair.

"You've come to protect us, if you can, Sons of Adam," she says, still laughing, grimly. "And you will die trying, but so will I."

"You will fight, if it comes to it?" Peter asks.

"I will, when it does, though it may be hopeless, as my family and friends believe it to be," she says. "They may be right, but I speak for the marshwiggles, so I will fight for them, too."

"You are an inspiration, Riverash," Edmund tells her bluntly. She is –strong willed and melancholy, and the most optimistic marshwiggle either of them have ever met.

"Just to you," she says. "My Kings. The rest find me foolish to believe in our survival, though that is why I now lead them."

"Then to them, too," Peter assures her. "They may just not know it yet."


	3. Chapter 2

Peter listens, but perhaps, Peter does not listen well enough.

He is just months away from his nineteenth birthday. He faced enough troubles in the first weeks of his reign, and he learned quickly enough how to be a brother and a father and a king at the same time that sometimes, Peter forgets that the way he did all that as a kid was to listen.

Edmund, fourteen and belligerent, grunts in irritation after they leave their audience with Riverash. "Please pay attention, Peter," Edmund insists. "Everyone is saying that these aren't people, they're predators. They're not waging war, they're migrating."

But Peter pays him no mind. "What do you propose then, Ed? Should we go hunting?" The marshwiggles have put them up well. Peter and Edmund are in the back room of one of their homes, and all the rest of them have been quartered in the homes of willing volunteers.

Edmund just shrugs and pushes himself off the wall. "Do what you want. You're in charge," he says, and he leaves the house to help prepare for the war that he, and everyone else, is telling Peter is inevitable.

"I'm just trying to avoid a fight, Edmund," Peter calls after him, but Edmund just waves him away, and Peter knows that Edmund gets it; Peter's not trying to be stubborn or foolish, he's just trying to be good.

He sends two messengers out that night, with a letter that instructs the giants to leave peacefully or to be forced out of Narnia. If they choose to leave, however, then Narnia would be willing to become an ally to giant kind, and to help them find a place to spend the winter with plenty of space and plenty of food to eat.

The messengers do not return.

The marshwiggles (even sensible Riverash), Edmund, and Oreius tell Peter that they're dead, they've been eaten. Edmund even recites a nursery rhyme that Peter had all but forgotten, and by the time night falls two days after he had sent the messengers, all the marshwiggles are crying out about the giants grinding bones to make their bread.

The only thing Peter can think to do then is to demand an audience with the giants, and much to Edmund's irritation, he, Peter, Oreius, and Riverash make their way into giant country without backup and barely armed. Edmund is on edge, and he keeps leaning over to tell Peter that they are walking into a death trap, _that giants don't reason_. If they make it out of this, it will be a miracle. No one else is quite so bold to tell Peter he's wrong about the giants, but they're not exactly supporting him either.

"Listen," Peter says, stopping their small procession suddenly. "I have to at least give them a chance."

"No offense, Peter, but you're giving wild animals a chance, not people," Edmund says seriously, looking over Peter's shoulder into the rocks. They're only a few hundred paces from the rocky hills the giants now call home. "And, I think they've made it pretty clear they don't answer to us, even if they _are_ like people."

But they are only a few hundred paces away from the rocks, and Peter sees now that some of the rocks are moving. Peter takes a deep breath. "Come on," he says, and in a few hundred paces, they're among them, and the rocks are indeed moving. From here, Peter can see they're not rocks at all, but the great heads of giants, each topped with snow. With every movement, a small avalanche falls from above. The giants don't even seem to notice the four trespassers as they march through.

For five years, Peter had been under the impression that there were only two types of giants, both very large, both rather dim, both with a taste for flesh, but both very like people in all other ways. The difference between the two types of giants was how they satisfied their taste for flesh. The first kind of giant are giants like Rumblebuffin, whose family has been in Narnia for centuries. They are kind and gentle hearted and well liked living among the rest of the Narnians. The other kind are mean-spirited and cruel, and exactly the kind that Edmund's nursery rhyme is about.

But apparently, there is a third kind of giant. Peter can tell, with just one look at these giants' faces that they were neither kind nor cruel. They were hardly more than the wild beasts from that Other Place, where he and his sibling had come from.

Peter swallows. "They're awfully big," he says. His mouth is incredibly dry, and his mind is incredibly blank. It's all he can think to say. Edmund snorts in response.

"I suppose we're only alive now because they are not hungry," Riverash muses. "Though, I expect they will be soon, and then we will be done for."

"Then we should go," Oreius suggests. "While we still can."

Riverash looks up at the giants and shakes her head. "We'll never make it out," she says. "Or they will pursue us if we do, and they'll eat up the rest of Narnia."

"Doubt it," Edmund grumbles.

Peter takes one more glance up at the giants. "Yeah," he decides, turning back around to face the marshes. "Let's go."

And slowly, they start back.

Edmund leans over to him once again. "Are we coming back tomorrow?" he asks. "To kick them out."

Peter shakes his head, kicking a bit of snow in front of him with a little more force than necessary. "I suppose we have to. They ate the messengers after all."

"Brilliant."

They have hardly taken two steps, however, when the giants notice them. It starts with grunting, and a lot of snow falling at them very quickly. Pretty soon, they're soaked, and doing their best to dodge giant sized snowballs. And then, one of the giants gets the bright idea to throw something heavier and more solid at the trespassers. He picks up a rock and lobs it at them. Peter sees it coming before the others do, and he shoves Edmund out of the way just as it comes hurtling towards their heads.

Edmund pushes himself up from the snow, brushing himself off, grumbling.

"Stay down!" Peter shouts. They're all hunched over, staring up at the giants. Edmund stands up all the way, and at once, an enormous hand sweeps him off his feet. Edmund lets out a shout as his body slams against the rocks. Without thinking, Peter darts to his feet too and towards his brother, who is slumped over in a way that reminds Peter too much of when Edmund lay dying on the battlefield at Beruna.

"I told you," Peter groans, slinging Edmund's arm over his shoulder. Edmund doesn't move a muscle, not even to open his eyes. Peter looks back over to the giants. There's a pair of legs coming towards them, and each step the giant feet take shakes the earth and Peter's nerves. The giant comes closer every second, and Peter thinks that maybe, this time, the marshwiggles were right: they just came out here to get eaten themselves. "Damn it," Peter swears. The giant is only one huge step away, and Peter can't figure out away to move Edmund without getting them both crushed by snow, or rocks, or giant feet. He takes out his sword, and positions himself so that Edmund is as far away from the giant as possible, pressed against the rock.

The giant is upon them now, and he stoops down, his hand coming towards Peter and Edmund. Peter retreats further back, up against the rock. Edmund stirs behind him.

"You're crushing me, Peter," he moans at last.

"Hush, Ed," Peter says, extending his sword as far he can. The giant's hand is blocking the sun, and they're underneath a canopy of flesh and Edmund is struggling so that he doesn't have his face grinding up against stone. "Ed?" Peter asks. "Can you run?"

"Yeah, if I wasn't being mashed against a mountain," he complains.

"Great," Peter says. He lets go of Edmund's arm. He wavers a little, but he gives Peter a pat on the back, and even though Peter's eyes are fixed on the hand in front of them, he knows that Edmund is grinning at him. "When I say, run as fast as you can."

"What about you?" Edmund asks. He's still disoriented –Peter can hear it in his voice –but he's concerned. "Don't be a hero, Pete. I can fight."

Peter doesn't argue. He doesn't even have the time to point out that Edmund can barely stand, let alone hold a sword to slay giants. He just jabs forward with as much force as he can muster and pushes Edmund away from the wall of rock as the giant howls and clutches his injured hand.

Edmund stumbles forwards for a few feet and the giant begins looking around for his attacker. All Peter can think to do is ram his sword into the giant's foot, but it doesn't do much more than draw his attention away from Edmund for a few moments. Edmund trips, or slips, or just outright falls after just a few more steps, and several other giants have noticed the commotion that Peter is causing on the ground. They turn their heads to the easy target, Edmund, lying motionless, and Peter wonders if it's too much to ask for the giants to kill each other over who gets to eat his brother while someone rescues them.

Meanwhile, the giant that Peter attacked has spotted him and makes a wild grab for him. Peter manages to cut the same hand again, but it doesn't keep him at bay, just makes him grab for Peter with his other hand, and growl when that one comes back bleeding too. He lifts his foot up to crush Peter, the pest, who rolls out of the way in the nick of time to avoid becoming mush.

The next second, Peter realizes the giant is back to pursuing Edmund, who hasn't moved an inch since he fell. He's still lying in the snow, and this giant is barely a step from him. It takes him a while to crouch down low enough to be able to pick him up, but soon, the giant is kneeling in the snow and scooping up a handful of it along with Edmund's body.

"Hey!" Peter shouts, running towards the giant. He can't think of anything else to say or to do, so he shouts again. "Hey! You! Hey!" He's close enough now to stab the giant in the backside, and that's enough to surprise him into standing up and looking down. He's smart enough to know the unconscious child didn't poke him with a sword in the behind, but he can't find Peter right away, and there are a couple of heart stopping moments during which the giant is searching that Peter thinks he's going to crush Edmund. Peter moves as far away from his brother that he can without losing sight of him completely, and shouts at the giant again, waving his sword. The sun glints off the blade, and the giant follows it, grunting and snorting and growling, and Peter can't believe that just an hour ago, he was thinking about negotiating with these creatures.

"Hey!" Peter shouts again, as loud as he can, still waving his sword. He's attracted the attention of several other giants, and the attention of Oreius and Riverash. Oreius pulls Riverash onto his back and makes his way, as quietly and as quickly as he can, towards Edmund. "Do you know who I am, you oaf?" Peter shouts up to the giants. He doesn't expect an answer and he doesn't get one, just a lot grunting, and a lot of wild swiping from large hands. One knocks him back several feet, but he stands up, none the worse, and starts his shouting again. "I am the High King of Narnia, Knight of the Stone Table!" he yells. He leads the giants further away from his friends. He can see Riverash kneeling next to Edmund in the snow. He wants to help, wants to be with his brother right now, but all he can do is give Oreius and Riverash enough of a distraction to get Edmund out of this mess. "You have crossed into Narnia, and have been attacking and _snacking on_ Narnians!" The giants don't do anything but laugh at Peter as he jumps away from the swinging hands coming towards him from all sides. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Riverash handing Edmund to Oreius and clambering onto his back, and Oreius runs, as fast as he can back towards the marshes. He doesn't care how much noise he's making or how many giants see him leave, he is simply fleeing as fast as he can. Now's Peter's chance to get out.

And suddenly, Peter has the peculiar sensation that he's flying, and the next thing he knows his feet aren't on solid ground, and the wind is blowing a bit stronger, and it's several degrees colder than he remembers, and he's staring right into the huge, bloodshot eyes of a giant. He's hundreds of feet above the ground, he thinks, but by some miracle he's managed to hold onto his sword. At least, Peter thinks, the giant will be in some discomfort as he swallows him. And from this height, he can see his brother fleeing with Oreius and Riverash. They're not far enough yet to be safe, but they're far enough that they don't have to be Peter's first concern.

"Did you hear me?" Peter says. He's still shouting at the giant; he wonders if it will buy his friends enough time to get away if he insists on talking while he's at eye level with the giants. "I am the High King of Narnia, and I command you to leave."

The giant cocks his head and blinks. And then, the last thing Peter is expecting happens. The giant opens his mouth, and says, "Or what, _King_?" He holds Peter out for the rest of the giants to see. They laugh at Peter, and they shout at him. "Puny king! What can the small, human king do to us?"

Peter puffs out his chest as much as he can in the giant's grasp, and says, in the most regal voice he can manage, "Release me, and leave Narnia, or you will die."

The giants laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and while they laugh, Peter sees Oreius getting far enough away from the giants that they couldn't possibly think it was worth it to follow them now. So Peter readjusts his grip on his sword, and when he's close enough again, he stares right into the giant's huge eyes, and thrusts his sword into the pupil.

The giant drops Peter immediately, but Peter, by some miracle, lands on a snow bank, on a cliff, just a few feet below. He can't breathe, but he knows he's not hurt, at least not seriously. He'll be all right in a few moments, and besides, right now, if he gets up, the giants will eat him, raw, just the way he is. No ground bones for their bread, no king soup. So he lies still, suffocating in the snow, as the giants go off, shouting about the tiny king who will kill all the giants, until they've gone back to lazily sitting among the rocks.

By that time, the sun has started to go down, and Peter is sure that Edmund has made it back to the marshes. It's getting colder by the minute, but if he's very, very lucky, Peter should be back before the sunlight is completely gone, and, Peter realizes, as he sits up, freezing cold and covered in snow, he _has_ been lucky so far, all things considered. He even managed to hang onto his sword.

Peter makes it back by nightfall, and the marshwiggles have already begun lamenting both his and Edmund's death, and though Riverash is staying silent on both matters, once she sees Peter coming back from the mountains, her grim face lightens and she leads Peter to Edmund without a single word.

"He's not well, Your Majesty," she says, as she leaves him with his brother. Oreius is there, patiently listening to the marshwiggle healer who is busy telling them all that even though the injuries aren't too bad, they are, probably, in fact, much worse than they look, and he could always take a turn for the worse. Oreius is standing very grimly over Edmund's bedside with his arms crossed over his chest, and Peter can't tell if his expression is due to dealing with marshwiggle healers all afternoon, or if Edmund really is in as bad shape as the healer says.

"Thank you, Riverash," Peter says, his eyes fixed on Edmund. Riverash bows slightly and starts to leave, but something stops her.

She takes a deep breath. "Your Majesty," she says in a very small voice. "Tomorrow, we force the giants out of Narnia?" It's not quite a question, more of statement, really. Her gray face is tinged with fear and determination, but not uncertainty, and Peter wonders should he tell her no if she would go up there herself to take back her home.

"Or die trying," Peter tells her.

She shakes her head and smiles. "We most certainly will, Your Majesty. And it will all be for naught," she says, still shaking her head. "But what a noble cause, to fight for one's home and for one's family."

"You're quite right, my Lady," Peter tells her, and she blushes and bows awkwardly, and leaves them alone with the healer.

The other marshwiggle is still fussing over Edmund. He's very old, Peter can tell. He walks with a hunch and his face is so wrinkled he can barely see his eyes. His hair, what's left of it, is white and sticking up at all ends. "That's one lady," he grumbles. "All starry-eyed over honor and nobility," he says. "All of it's useless, of course. We all die in the end."

"Some of us sooner than others," Oreius mutters under his breath, and it takes everything Peter has in him not to laugh, but the marshwiggle just nods and hums to himself.

"That's right, Horse. That's damn right," he agrees. Oreius looks a little taken aback by the response, or maybe to being called a horse. "We all die, and we never know when. We'd probably all die tomorrow, even without those blasted giants." He slams his medicine down on the bedside table and grunts. "And him, this one, he'll be dead by sunrise. Nothing I could do. Did what I could, but you can't account for other things. So it wasn't enough, and even if I healed his injuries, there's always something else. Perhaps a giant," the marshwiggle grumbles, waddling out of the room. "Perhaps a giant will come out of those mountains and eat him up. Wouldn't that just be tragic?" Another door slams and Peter sighs.

"It's not really all as bad as that, is it Oreius?" Peter says at once. Oreius shakes his head.

"Not nearly," he says, staring at Edmund. "He's already woken up several times since we've been back, asking for you, calling you a bloody idiot for staying behind like that." Oreius glances at Peter. "I agree, respectfully, Your Majesty." Peter grunts indifferently. "But," Oreius continues. "He's disoriented. He won't be able to fight tomorrow."

"We don't need him," Peter says. "As long as he's alright."


	4. Chapter 3

Its' snowing the next morning when Peter wakes up. Edmund is already awake, arguing –unsuccessfully–with Oreius. Edmund is groggy and disoriented, but he's otherwise fine, for which Peter is extraordinarily grateful. Although, from the sound of things, Oreius has just informed him that he will not be participating in today's battle, Edmund is characteristically disgruntled.

"I am perfectly all right to fight, Oreius," Edmund informs him. "And besides, if I'm not there than who is going to watch Peter's ass."

Peter sits up then, as Oreius, severe as ever, sighs and says, "I believe that would be my job, Edmund." Peter laughs, hearing Oreius use Edmund's first name; Oreius is respectful and rigid, and he hasn't called any of them by their first names in years. Edmund and Oreius look over at Peter when they hear him.

"Tell him, Peter," Edmund begs, rounding on him. Edmund is still in bed, propped up by some pillows, and even though he's not even sitting up on his own, he looks as determined as ever to fight.

"You got tossed around like you were nothing yesterday, Ed," Peter reminds him. "And while your enthusiasm is certainly refreshing, I'm not sure it isn't the concussion talking." Edmund crosses his arms indignantly. "You could have died yesterday, Ed, and I'm in no condition to lose you," Peter says softly, getting out of bed just to lay a hand on Edmund's shoulder. He knows Edmund's more likely to acquiesce to his decision if Peter makes it about him. Edmund furrows his brow, like he knows what Peter's up to, or if he really is trying hard to process the layers of Peter's request.

Both options are entirely possible. Peter waits.

"If it lets you sleep easy," Edmund concedes after some time. And Peter has to admit, it does help him breathe a little easier the very moment that he knows Edmund won't be sneaking off after him, or trying to duel the old marshwiggle to let him out of bed. "But don't you get killed," he adds. "Susan would never forgive me."

Peter and Riverash stand at the front of a small army. Behind them stand fifty shivering Narnians, no giants among them. Just a few determined red dwarves, the Dogs and Big Cats that are eager to accompany Peter anywhere he goes, and a handful of fauns and satyrs whose hooves are certainly not ideal for such snowy conditions. Or course, nearly fifty marshwiggles dolefully joined their ranks yesterday afternoon, but no marshwiggle Peter ever met made good soldiers, with the exception of Riverash. Oreius stands at the back, helping some especially despondent marshwiggles with the trebuchets they built, though they swore to Peter yesterday that they would fall apart in this cold and would never see battle.

In all, including Peter, Riverash, and Oreius, they totaled one hundred and two Narnians, half of whom –though fighting for their homes –find it all for naught. One hundred Narnians against the boldest and cruelest giants in the world. Peter doesn't know how many giants have ventured this far south, but he expects that with size on their side, that two would be challenging enough, and he's certain there are more than two, just from his encounter yesterday.

From where stands now, Peter can tell they are _definitely_ up against more than two giants. They are rumbling about in the rocks, and it looks to the untrained eye like the whole mountainside is moving.

They're all itching to get it over with, but for now, all there is to do wait. Peter is waiting for dark. It's a risk, probably stupid. As several marshwiggles pointed out to him earlier, they are all very likely to freeze to death, which they supposed was better than being eaten for supper. Peter isn't sure he agrees, but he hadn't pointed that out to the marshwiggles, because at least with the hope of freezing to death, they still rounded up as many soldiers as they could and shown up.

Peter just wants to scare the giants off while spilling as little blood as possible, even their horrible giant blood. They are less likely to be purposefully trampled on and picked up if the giants can't see them, though Peter does admit the whole ordeal would be much more pleasant in the summer. Besides, the dark doesn't give them much of advantage, even if their targets are rather large.

The sun is just about setting now. Peter sets his jaw, and Riverash shifts her weight on her webbed feet. They've been preparing all day, instructing and arming the marshwiggles, rallying as many to join up as they could in such a short period of time. Most took one look at the snow piling up on the mountains and told Riverash that they would much rather die at home than in a blizzard. The march up, with one hundred and one people under him, and without Edmund by his side, was long and aggravating. His socks were soaked in a matter of minutes, and many of the Animals weren't used to the rocky terrain and they slipped with every step they took. And now they have nothing to do but wait on the sun. It's maddening after a day of doing nothing but walking. The waiting always is for Peter –no matter how many times he stands here, on the brink of battle –knowing that the only thing ahead is chaos and uncertainty, knowing he holds lives in his hands. He can't get used to the anxiety that comes before. The silence, the cold pit in his stomach that sends shivers down his spine. The waiting always makes him cold, even on the hottest of summer days. The snow falling around him now makes him feel numb.

Before he knows it, it's dark, and still he waits, waits until the giants are quiet among the rocks. He turns to Riverash, whose greenish skin is glistening in the moonlight. Peter turns to look at Edmund, but Edmund is not there. Peter grows colder still. He looks to one of the dogs, shivering in snow up to his ears.

"Tell Oreius that we're ready," Peter instructs, and the dog takes off, cutting a path in the snow and leaving tiny paw prints behind him. Peter turns back to face the same rocks where he faced the giants the day before. He waits for Oreius's signal, his deep, bellowing horning that Edmund will be able to hear from where he waits for Peter to return. Riverash reaches out for Peter's arm. She wraps her fingers around it, clutching Peter's freezing armor firmly.

"Thank you, King Peter," she whispers. She doesn't let go when Peter turns to look at her. "Thank you for your kindness. We are ready to follow you." Her smile is shaky, but she seems confident in Peter. Peter places one of his raw, red hands on the one that she placed on his arm. He doesn't have the words in him to express the gratitude she feels back towards her, for her loyalty, her strength, her courage. Peter remembers facing Oreius, years before, looking into his stern face, wondering how he could help these Narnians.

"This is for our people, Lady Riverash," he says at last. She smiles.

He hadn't been cold then, but he –and every Narnian that stood behind him on the rocks that day –had been so afraid of being cold again. Many of those who stood behind him now stood behind him then.

 _Are you with me?_

Oreius blows the horn, and it echoes throughout the mountains and the marshes. The Narnians stir and the giants grumble. Back then, Peter was so unsure about everything. About who he was, who the Narnians thought he should be. Edmund, small, scared, badly wounded from his time with the witch, stood ready to follow him. Oreius had years of experience but looked to him for advice.

Boulders fly from behind him and land among the giants. This plan, now, at the very edge of Narnia, for the sake of just a few Narnians, was as much Peter's plan as it was Oreius's.

He doesn't need to ask now, where Oreius stands –if his loyalty is conditional, if it was to him or to Narnia. Peter and Narnia are largely inseparable now, anyway, though maybe they were back then too.

Several giants wake and peer overtop their resting places. They don't see the Narnians or where the boulders come from. One picks up a fallen rock and knocks it on the head of his neighbor. Soon there is an all-out brawl, giant versus giant, and the Narnians do nothing but watch as the giants stumble over each other

Next to him, Riverash gasps in fright. A boulder had landed a foot from them, and while no giant looks in their direction, it still shatters her hard won ease. "They'll surely come this way and crush us to death," she hisses.

Back then, he had been alone, told all along that he was meant to aide Narnia and Aslan, but when the sun rose that morning, Aslan was gone, as were Susan and Lucy.

"Just a few more minutes," Peter assures her.

Five years ago, he looked into Oreius's face, the hard lines of too many consecutive winters, too many loved ones lost. Impossibility remained in front of him, but Oreius believed in him, Edmund believed in him. He was their only hope, or he gave them hope. They believed that he would give his life to protect them, and so they would give their lives to protect him.

Peter isn't sure of his plan at all anymore, though. The only light they had was from the moon, and now it hides behind a cloud. Peter is soaked and he can't move his fingers or toes. One hand is wrapped around his horn, but he isn't sure he's capable of blowing it, and his other hand is around his sword, though he's not sure it isn't rusted and frozen inside its scabbard. He wipes his nose and pushes down his fear, as he did when they first came, on that rock, staring down at the Witch's horrifying army.

 _To the death._

They were willing to follow him on the off chance that a fourteen year old boy was their savior, their king chosen by Aslan. Peter takes a deep breath of icy air and puts the horn to his chapped lips. This isn't some hastily scrapped together plan by some terrified teenager. Peter is a king, and a fairly successful one, even if he is only nineteen. He blows, and the Narnians start moving, slowly and quietly, and willing to go, for Peter and for a sullen bunch of frog people, to their deaths.


	5. Chapter 4

The sound of Oreius's horn rings throughout the marsh, and Edmund sits straight up in bed. Earlier, Peter had come in, shared his battle plans with Edmund, and left telling him that he would "see him later."

Except, as with all of Peter's plans, there was just as great of a chance that every Narnian –including Peter –would turn up dead instead of victorious. While Peter was waiting for the right moment to strike, Edmund sat waiting for Peter to come back so they could get out of the cold and the snow, and so that they wouldn't have to speak to another marshwiggle for another week, _at least_.

Edmund sighs and tries not to imagine the worst. Peter coming back broken, defeated, alone. Or Peter not coming back at all. He leans back and bites his lip anxiously. He has a long night ahead of him. He'll be able to hear the battle from where he lays now.

But for now there is silence as Oreius's horn fades into the distance.

* * *

Peter and the Narnians charge into battle, swiping and stabbing madly at the giants. The giants are confused by their invisible attackers, and they turn on each other. The Narnians have to dodge the giants' feet pounding down from above to avoid getting trampled. The marshwiggles continue to hurl rocks at the giants. The whole canyon shakes as each one crashes to the ground. The snow covered mountains tremble and shed their white blankets, revealing bare, gray rock. Peter thinks vaguely, dodging boulders and giant feet and sheets of snow, that it makes the whole valley look more depressing. He doesn't know if those mountains have _ever_ seen anything green since the beginning of time.

It goes on like this for an hour. The giants eventually catch on and swipe their clubs low to the ground, wiping out five or six Narnians at a time. Some of them manage to scramble back to their feet, but others lie motionless, their bodies crumpled in unnatural positions. Riverash is by Peter's side, and she is a fierce warrior, though there isn't much to fight. Nevertheless, she climbs up giants' legs and digs her sword into their thighs. She returns to the ground by Peter's side before the giant even knows what has happened, and as they make their way through the giants' settlement, Riverash's victim falls to his knees, suddenly gushing blood. A lot of blood. Peter swallows hard, and tries to look away from the fallen bodies all around him, Narnian and Giant alike.

He presses on. He wanted to avoid all this, but here he is, once again. Surrounded by blood, by death, by determined Narnians who are willing to sacrifice everything for their freedom and security. For the freedom and security of their friends and neighbors and complete strangers. So is Peter, even if he will never get used to the sight of good, dead Narnians. Or even bad, dead giants. It is only the desperation of the marshwiggles who came before them at Cair Paravel, and Riverash's stony determination to fight for her people in spite of any doubts she had about the outcome that keep Peter going this time. It's Edmund, back with the rest of the marshwiggles, and how still he was in the snow yesterday that allows him to justify the deaths of so many giants. Edmund had been right. They aren't rational creatures, or if they are, they are not good. They are evil. They would tear Narnia and all her people apart, and they would reach into Archenland and take that too. Before long, they would parch the Northern most part of Calormen's desert and the Tisroc would be in Narnia, demanding to what was left of her government how they could allow such vile creatures to terrorize their citizens.

But still, they are Aslan's creatures, just as everything else is.

Just as _he_ is.

Although, it's hard to ruminate so deeply on the sanctity of life when Peter has been in fifteen battles in five years, and he's killed more men than he met in the first fourteen years of his life, and the giants are stomping on his soldiers like they're ants, and the giants can shake off the snow falling from above like they stepped into a cobweb, but Peter's soldiers are being buried alive by it. A little in front of him, he sees three dogs digging desperately in a snowbank, one with his head buried in the snow, his hind legs working to pull something out by its shirt. It's a marshwiggle, who comes out shaking his head and shivering.

All around him, Peter sees the carnage unfold. It isn't what he wanted, but it is what he is getting. It's what he always gets. Narnians are being dragged away from the giants faster than they are attacking, and Peter can't tell the injured from the dead. The marshwiggles' trebuchets are now doing as much damage to the Narnians as the giants, and Peter has to watch as two boulders in a row land on Narnians who were too focused on staying out the giants' grip that they didn't see or hear the rocks coming towards them.

Peter makes a decision to do what he does best in the heat of battle; he calls off the attack. There aren't many of them left now, just Peter, Riverash, Oreius, and a handful of Narnians who escaped the giants' notice altogether.

* * *

Edmund hears the clash of battle far away. It sounds bad, but war always does. This battle sounds quiet. The giants thunder in the distance, and Narnians crash. But that is all. No glorious sounds of Narnian victory.

Edmund's blood runs cold. The sound Peter's horn, signaling not success but a retreat. Edmund tries to tell himself this is a good thing. Peter knows his limits, he's not letting himself and the Narnians die in vain. They will regroup and Peter will beat the giants.

Or not. There's the general rumble of retreat and giants chasing Narnians out of their valley, and then, there's silence.

* * *

All good kings know that they must be the last in their retreat, and Peter is a great king. He would never leave his soldiers, his people to die, to be trapped in a retreat he himself would not risk death in. Besides, with Edmund still in the village with the rest of the marshwiggles, and with Susan and Lucy still at home, it's not like he would be leaving Narnia without leadership, even if something were to happen to him.

Peter sounds his horn again. He calls for a retreat. He rounds up all of his men, shoves wounded into the arms of medics, and only once Peter is sure that all of his soldiers, Narnians and marshwiggles alike, are on their way to safety, Peter turns, ready to regroup, ready to let his men rest, to listen to Oreius' advice, to change his plans. He's ready to win this battle before he's even off the battlefield.

The last of the Narnians are filtering out from between the mountains, and Peter is right behind them, but before he makes it to safety, he is swept off of his feet, into the side of the mountain. Riverash, who is by Peter's side, shouts in surprise, drawing her weapon, baring her teeth. Narnians scatter away from the giants. Peter sits up against the mountainside he was thrown against, rubbing his head. His vision is swimming and clearing slowly. Something warm and wet trickles down the side of his face. It's blood. He wipes it from his eyes, and stands, swaying just barely. He sees Riverash squaring up against the giant who took Peter out.

"Go, Riverash!" Peter shouts at her. The giant looks over at Peter, but he turns back to Riverash and picks her up in spite of her struggling. He lifts her to his mouth. Riverash positions her own sword in such a way that Peter knows what's going to happen before the giant does. Riverash enters the giant's mouth arm first, and Riverash thrusts her sword through the roof of his mouth with as much force as her long, spindly arms can muster. She draws her arm out as the giant's mouth snaps shut. A hair later, she would have lost an arm. Her armor is thick with blood, and she has lost her weapon, but she does not look anything but determined.

The giant starts to sink, his knees giving out. He crashes to the ground, but he does not release Riverash before he dies. He falls face first, on top of the hand that held Riverash. Peter runs toward the giant and where he is sure Riverash has been crushed to death. The mass of the giant's body looms before him, a small mountain in itself. The creature is still breathing, but it is coming slowly, and there's a river of blood coming from its mouth. Peter pokes it a few times in its side with his sword to see if it will move, but it doesn't even react. Peter discards his sword in the snow, panicked, and pushes and shoves the giant's limbs until he can see just the top of Riverash's head. He can't tell her condition from her straw hair, but he clambers across the giant's body to pull her out. She too is breathing raggedly. She coughs and looks up at Peter blearily.

Peter kneels in the snow next to her and his sword. "Your Majesty," she coughs and smiles weakly. "Go. Leave me here."

"You're still alive, my lady," Peter reminds her, returning his sword to his side, and picking Riverash up. Marshwiggles, in spite of their height, are incredibly lightweight and Peter is strong. She is no heavier than Lucy was when she was just eight, and nothing to Peter to carry out of the valley, but a giant thunders behind him, and Riverash gasps a warning to him. Peter draws his weapon, forcing him to drop Riverash by the wall of the mountain.

Peter swings around, slashing around with his sword like he hasn't trained every day for five years to become the most feared swordsman in the land. There's fire in his eyes, and he will defend Riverash and Narnia from these giants, these invaders. He tried to be civil, tried to save the giants and Narnia at the same time. But first they come for his country, then his brother, and then one of the most loyal and courageous women that he has ever had the pleasure to serve next to. They will not take her. They will not take him. They will not have Narnia as their home, their feeding ground.

Narnia has survived worse than giants, and Peter will not let her fall, not a single inch of her, because the giants don't care about life or Narnia or Aslan. It will be their last mistake.

Peter scales the leg of the approaching giant. The giant tries to swat him off, but Peter's grip is strong, and he makes an incision in the giant's thigh. The giant plucks him off of his leg and Peter lets himself. He wants to look this giant in the eye as it dies.

The giant raises Peter to his eyelevel, and Peter sneers. He jabs with his sword into the giant's eye, and pushes, with both hands, as far as the weapon will go. He twists it for good measure. Peter pulls it out of his eye and jumps as the giant lets him go and reaches towards his eye in pain. Peter clings to the giant's shirt as it howls and sways, and soon, it thunders to the ground, dead.

Peter scrambles away from the giant, through the snow. He cannot feel the cold anymore. He looks back a Riverash, who is very solemnly examining the two fallen giants. Peter surveys the valley before him. Giants stare at him, but Peter bares his teeth, growling.

They approach, but Peter disposes of them too. He climbs them like he would climb a tree or a ladder, and he falls with each one. His sword finds its way into each of their necks or eyes or guts, and as Peter watches the last two giants flee, he knows that the giants who are not dead yet, will have a slow, painful death.

The sun is rising rosy pink behind him. His shoulders fall a little, his sword dripping thick, red blood into the muddied snow.

The giants will not bother Narnia again.

Suddenly, Riverash calls out to him, and Peter turns, wiping his sword on his leg clumsily and putting it away.

"King Peter," she croaks. She sounds awfully like a frog. She looks awfully like a frog, a terrible shade of green, her straw hair looks strange upon her head. The intelligent, determined light in her eyes is fading quicker than Peter can walk. So he runs.

He drops to his knees beside her, pressing his cold hands against her cold face. "Riverash," he gasps, looking into her eyes. They do not look back. "Riverash?"

"You are very brave, my king," she gasps, looking past him. "I hope that's the last I see of those giants, even if they come back some day."

Peter swallows hard. "You fought valiantly, my lady," he says, forcing his voice past the uncomfortable knot in his throat. His eyes sting, but he's afraid that if he lets his tears fall here, they will freeze to his face. At any rate, there's no use crying. It won't help Riverash. She presses her own hand against Peter's pink cheeks and smiles.

"Thank you," she breathes, and closes her eyes. Peter wants to cry out for help, but there's no one close enough to hear, so he heaves her into her arms. She's so light, Peter remembers as he lifts her. Her breathing is shallow but even, and though the color is leaving her face rapidly, she looks peaceful. Peter carries her to the Narnians. Oreius meets him and looks at Riverash. Peter hands her off to a healer, who takes her gingerly.

"My Lord." Oreius bows. Peter turns to him.

"What are our losses?" Peter asks bluntly.

"Not too bad, Your Majesty," Oreius assures. The sun is almost up now. "And the injured, they will heal."

Peter nods, a knot of anxiety works itself out of his chest. He feels tired suddenly. Exhausted. He could sleep for a hundred years. And now that he's no longer got ten or twelve giants trying to eat him, he notices his aching head. He remembers the blood. He rubs the spot absently.

"Will you, my Lord?" Oreius wonders. Peter nods again.

"I just need to sleep, Oreius," Peter says distractedly. He's surveying his army. They seem to be alright, those that are still alive. He's trying to count, but they won't stop moving long enough for him to be able to get a good look at who is still alive. "General, how many did we lose?" he asks again.

Oreius sighs. "Four," he says sternly. "But I don't know if it's a final count. After we reenter battle, after the day is won, I can give you a full account of our losses."

"The day is won, Oreius," Peter says. He sinks to the ground. He doesn't care about the snow. _Four._ It's not bad. It could have been worse. But that's four families who have lost someone they loved. Four people who loved and were loved, and who could have done something wonderful. Not anymore. Peter tries not to think of the giants he killed _(eight)_ the same way.

"Your Majesty?" Oreius wonders. He wonders why Peter is sitting in the snow.

"Let's go home," Peter says, laying his head on his knees, burying it in his arms. "The giants will not come back to Narnia if they know what is good for them."

* * *

 **A/N: Here it is...the third and final full chapter of The Magnificent. There is nothing that I could have done to be happy with it after a year, but I hope it's okay. Also, it's a day later than I originally intended, but what's one day in the grand scheme of things, when you consider I started this fic over a year ago.**

 **There will be a short (?) epilogue that I will post next Wednesday (or between next Wednesday and next Sunday). Thanks for sticking with me.**


	6. Epilogue

Riverash wakes up, and Edmund is back on his feet. Peter's sword is covered in blood, but Edmund has never been squeamish, so the second that Peter breaks away from the hordes of marshwiggles demanding answers about Riverash and their friends and families, Edmund pulls him into a bone breaking hug.

" _Aslan_ , Peter, you look like hell," Edmund grumbles into Peter's shoulder. Peter supposes he does. He's glad to be out of the cold, even if it means being back in earshot of the curmudgeonly, old marshwiggle healer. In just a few hours they'll be on their way back home, where Susan and Lucy are waiting for their return. Edmund pulls back to look at Peter at arms' length so he can examine the gash on Peter's head. "At least your head injury left a mark," he remarks, letting go of Peter's arms. Edmund touches his head. "The girls will never believe me when I tell them that I'm concussed. They'll just think I chickened out."

"Ed…" Peter sighs, but Edmund is smirking in that serious way he does, when he's trying his damnedest to make light of a situation that Peter is taking far too seriously. He quirks his eyebrows a little, and Peter can't help but breathe a laugh. "You were right about the giants," Peter admits.

Edmund's grin widens a little. "My three favorite words," he sighs, throwing himself back down on the bed. "Thank you, Peter. It takes a big man to admit he was wrong."

Peter sits next to Edmund. "Yes, well, don't get used to it." He looks around the elderly marshwiggle's home sadly. He looks down at his hands. He scrubbed his hands for almost twenty minutes earlier, but they're still red with blood. He swallows hard. Peter looks back at Edmund who is watching him seriously, his brown eyes as deep and grave as ever. Peter tries to smile at Edmund but fails. Instead he buries his head in his hands. "Lion's mane, Ed," he grumbles from between his fingers. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Keep it together," Peter says. He squeezes his eyes shut, and wipes the tears that leaked out as he looks back at his brother. "I killed _eight_ giants today. _Eight._ They're as much Aslan's creations as you or I. What gives me the right?"

Edmund is silent and stony faced, his lips pursed tightly. Peter can see that he's chewing thoughtfully on the inside of cheek. After some silence Edmund sighs heavily and says very slowly, "You warned them, didn't you?" Peter nods. "Then…it's not like you're a murderer, Pete. You were just doing what you had to, to protect Narnia. It's your job."

"But…" Peter starts, but he doesn't know what else to say. He lets his voice trail off doubtfully. "I was angry."

Edmund rubs his hands on his trousers uncertainly and then stands up, turning to look Peter in the eye. "So am I," Edmund tells him matter-of-factly. "All the time." Another heavy silence during which Edmund decides how to proceed. Fourteen, and all of Edmund's silences are heavy and serious. Everything about him is serious. Edmund shrugs, and he looks fourteen again, and Peter is able to feel nineteen for a second. "And…you know, if you want advice from the 'master of keeping it together," Edmund snorts. "Then you're looking in the wrong place, but…" Edmund shrugs again. "If someone had told me I was allowed to be angry than I wouldn't have tried to sell you lot for sweets. Probably." Peter laughs weakly. "The two of us, Pete," Edmund continues. "Us and the girls, we're just trying to do what Aslan would want us to. And Aslan chose you to protect and lead Narnia, and that's what you did." That's how I 'keep it together,' or whatever. But, it's not a bad thing to be broken up about killing people, Pete," Edmund says earnestly. "You know that."

Peter knows it, but he'll be much happier once he's at home with his sisters and out of the snow.

"You, and you alone, Peter," Edmund says gravely. "Saved Narnia. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

 ** _FIN_**

* * *

 **A/N: Anyway, I'm done here. Thank you for sticking with me. This is getting posted now, on Monday, instead of Wednesday, because I will definitely forget, and you good people do not deserve to wait as long as you have for this fic. I can't believe people are still reading and reviewing it, even though it has taken me a year to write it. You all deserve the world, and I deserve a nap.  
**

 **A/N2: Several people have asked me if I plan to continue the series, and I DO. My plan is to do Susan's next, and finish with Lucy, but the earliest I can see myself starting The Gentle is August, and probably much later than that. I will keep you posted on my profile or on my writing blog, .com.**

 **Either way, thank you all for reading and bearing with me. Y'all are great!**


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